


and i'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways

by hihoplastic



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: The problem, then, isn’t that she doesn’t like John—but rather, that she likes him too much. She likes his funny walk and his ridiculous analogies that make no sense. She likes his stories and his fierce belief in the good of humanity. She likes his hands, and his stupid chin, and his stupid hair, and she likes that he can keep up with her, and she can keep up with him.The only thing she doesn’t like is that John doesn’t seem to likeherone bit.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/River Song, The Doctor/River Song
Comments: 27
Kudos: 122





	and i'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways

**Author's Note:**

> \- title from Ed Sheeran's "Thinking Out Loud"  
> \- for @tinkerbellxoxo on tumblr, who requested "River/11, human au, bickering idiots in love." Thank you so much and I hope you like it!  
> 

Movie night at the Ponds’ has always held a special place in her heart. They’ve been doing it for years, at least once a month, one of the few sources of steadiness in River’s life. She always brings take-out from their favorite Thai restaurant, and Rory bakes a cake, and Amy chooses the film. Sometimes it’s a rom-com, sometimes a classic; sometimes she picks an action flick, and spends the entire two hours hoping out loud that The Rock or Vin Diesel will lose his shirt somewhere in the ensuing fight. Rory always huffs and River rolls her eyes, and they miss most of the film regardless, interjecting opinions or talking about their days, Amy’s new venture (lately, a perfume that’s wildly popular), Rory’s work at the hospital, and River’s professorship at Oxford, her digs over the summers in places like Egypt and Israel and Tunisia. 

She always brings them back something from her travels, and the Ponds’ living room is littered with vases from China and blankets from Peru and wall decorations from Morocco. She loves telling them stories, of shattered cups she unearthed or snippy little men she put in their places, and loves nothing more than to see Amy throw her head back and laugh. She delights in Rory’s fond, long-suffering sighs and his quirked smiles, and has never felt quite as much at home as she does in the Ponds’ house, teasing them over the lull of _Casablanca_ playing in the background. 

She loves it, or rather, used to love it, until six months ago, when Amy started inviting her friend John. 

John, who insists on shushing them during the film so he can pay attention, only to get up halfway through and start tinkering with their garbage disposal, claiming it’s making “a noise.” John, who can’t sit still for the life of him, and meets all her stories with ones of his own, always trying to one-up her in everything. He snorts derisively when she talks about archaeology, and rolls his eyes when she talks about her students, muttering about how “those who can’t do, teach.” 

She always glowers, and snipes something back about grown men who can’t drive and eat custard for dinner, but it’s half-hearted. It’s not that she doesn’t like John—he’s clever and quick, and blushes bright red every time she makes any sort of innuendo. He’s well-travelled and well-read, and can debate her for hours on the merits of Foucault and Derrida, not that she cares much for either. He’s got floppy hair that falls in his face and long fingers that curl around mugs of hot cocoa—he doesn’t drink coffee—and he gestures so wildly he inevitably breaks something. His politics are similar, though they argue over how to implement them; he loves museums, though they argue over who should keep what artifacts and why. 

He’s ridiculous and mad and funny and sad, she thinks, an air of melancholy around him that he fights off with grand speeches and silly quirks. She knows Amy sees it—is almost positive that’s why she’s invited him to all their movie nights, told her once that he didn’t have any family, that they were all gone, and that he needed someone. 

She understands that all too well. 

The problem, then, isn’t that she doesn’t like John—but rather, that she likes him too much. She likes his funny walk and his ridiculous analogies that make no sense. She likes his stories and his fierce belief in the good of humanity. She likes his hands, and his stupid chin, and his stupid hair, and she likes that he can keep up with her, and she can keep up with him. 

The only thing she doesn’t like is that John doesn’t seem to like _her_ one bit.

He’s rarely outright rude—aside from his snarky comments about her career—and he bickers with her and sometimes flirts, but it seems unintentional, and he always clears his throat after he’s done it, looking away and straightening his stupid bow tie. 

Every time he comes by, he throws his arms around Amy and Rory, crushing them in hugs, and then pulls up short in front of her, nodding, “Professor.” 

She hides the hurt behind a smirk, a sultry, “Hello, sweetie,” that always makes him blush and turn away. 

He’d done the same thing tonight, plopped down on the opposite end of the sofa from her, and thrown his arm around Amy’s shoulder. She wonders about that, sometimes, but neither Amy or Rory seem perturbed, so she lets it go, listens to Amy explain excitedly about how her ad for her new perfume got over ten thousand likes on Twitter. 

John groans, rolling his eyes. “Twitter,” he mutters. “I hate Twitter.” 

“It’s useful,” River counters immediately, because she can’t help herself, and she feels the need to defend Amy. “It’s a fantastic marketing tool, and it brings people together in ways most platforms don’t.” 

“ _And_ it’s full of useless videos and cat memes and _selfies._ ” 

“What’s wrong with selfies?” 

“They’re vain.” 

“They help encourage young women to be proud of the way they look.” 

“Or they incite dangerous trends and contribute to low self-esteem. Twitter’s all about branding,” he says, leaning away from Amy to look around them, staring River down. She likes the way his eyes light up, the passion in his voice even if she doesn’t agree with him. “Corporations pretending to care about people to sell more stuff, politicians caring more about retweets than actual policy, media spreading disinformation—”

“Or it’s a way to connect with individuals with like minds and keep the media accountable. Look at the Arab Spring—people used Twitter as a way to connect and keep one another safe from the state, to raise awareness of what was happening on the ground—”

“Or look at China, or the US,” he counters, “Censorship in one land, fascism in another. Twitter gives the right-wing a platform—”

“You know there is something to be said for free speech.”

The Doctor sits up straighter, glaring at her. “Hate speech is not free speech, you can’t tolerate intolerance in a democratic society—”

“And the moment you start censoring people for what’s in their heads you run the risk of violating their rights—”

“To do what? Spread hatred and false information? Shutting them down on Twitter and other platforms isn’t the same as state-sponsored censorship—”

“I’m just saying it’s a slippery slope and we need to _think_ before we take action against words—”

He snorts. “Words have more power than anything else—”

“I think a gun might do a bit more damage—”

“Oh, yes, go straight to violence, that’s always your answer—”

“It’s not an answer, it’s an inevitable reaction from totalitarian countries censoring ideology—”

Amy clears her throat, loudly, and they both stop and stare at her. She hadn’t realized she’d shifted forward on the sofa, and that John had done the same, and they’re both leaning over Amy and Rory, not too far from one another. John jerks back into his seat, and River rolls her eyes, following more slowly, leaning back next to Rory. 

“Can we watch the movie now?” Amy asks, but it’s rhetorical, and John looks sheepish. 

“Sorry, Pond.” 

River winces slightly when he drops a kiss into her hair, hates the feeling of jealousy that pools in her stomach. 

She wishes he was like that with her. Wishes she could shut him up with a kiss. 

Amy’s picked a rom-com this time, and John spends the entire movie pointing out all the things that are inaccurate and unbelievable about it—love at first sight, the two seemingly incompatible protagonists. Amy laughs and hits him in the chest and he grins at her, and River feels her stomach turn over. 

He’s complaining about the heroine’s hair—curly, like hers—and River stands up, has to get out of there, can’t listen to him any longer. She doesn’t feel like arguing—she just feels unbearably sad, and says something about needing the loo before disappearing down the hall. 

She bypasses the bathroom and heads to their back porch, lets the door close behind her and leans against the house, staring up at the night sky. There are so few stars in the city, and it makes her chest ache for something she can’t quite explain. 

Inside, she can hear the TV and Amy’s laughter, and she shuts her eyes and tries to tell herself she’s being ridiculous, stupid, sentimental. 

It’s been six months, of movie nights with John and Amy inviting him to nearly every gathering they have, and she can’t get him out of her head. She knows it isn’t good for her—knows that sooner or later, she’s going to have to start pulling back, but part of her resents it. That she’s the one that will have to give up her time with Amy and Rory. But she can’t keep being around him, falling deeper and deeper each day while he looks at her with thinly veiled contempt. 

It makes her feel rotten, and worthless, and she’s spent half her life trying to remind herself that she isn’t either of those things; the last thing she’ll do is let any man tell her otherwise. 

She isn’t sure how much time has passed when she hears the black door open, and she sighs. “Sorry, Amy. I just needed some air.” 

There’s a shuffling sound, and she looks to the side, sees John standing there, uncomfortable. 

“Everything alright?” he asks, and he sounds like he cares and she hates it. 

“Fine,” she says shortly. “I’ll be inside in a minute.” 

It’s a dismissal, clear as she can make it, but John doesn’t leave. He lets the door close behind him, stands a few feet from her, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Well that’s boring,” he says.

“I’m not looking for entertainment, I’m looking for peace and quiet.” 

“Oh,” he says, and she thinks he’s about to leave. Instead, he moves next to her and leans against the house. “I can be quiet.”

She snorts. 

“I can! I’ll have you know I can be silent as a mouse.” 

“Prove it,” she returns. 

He’s quiet for about thirty seconds before he says, “I hate romantic comedies.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“They’re just so formulaic,” he continues. “There’s no room for spontaneity, for nuance. People don’t just run into each other at a coffee shop and fall madly in love.” 

She thinks of her first meeting with John, at Amy’s favorite tea shop, and winces. “Don’t they?” 

“No. Love should never be that small.” 

River looks at him, then, sees the melancholy in his eyes, and swallows. “It isn’t small,” she says softly. 

He turns to her, eyebrows raised. “No?” 

“Think about it—two people, with completely different lives, completely separate stories, somehow wind up in the same country, in the same city, in the same area, in the same coffee shop at the exact same time. Every decision they’ve ever made, every decision that was ever made for them had to lead them to that point, at the same moment. Think of all the universes where that didn’t happen—she was late for work, he missed the train, whatever the case. And they just happened upon one another?” She shakes her head. “How could that possibly be small?” 

John stares at her, lips slightly parted, and she has to look away before she does something stupid. 

“You’re a romantic,” he says, but it’s an observation, not a condemnation, and she shrugs. 

“I’m a realist. Most people don’t get that moment.” 

He’s quiet a moment, then asks, “Have you? Ever had that?” 

She thinks of their first meeting. Thinks of sitting with Amy in the quiet corner, the jingle of the door bell, the way she looked up and saw him, in his tweed and bow tie and thought, _Idiot,_ so fondly. Thinks of the way Amy got up, and introduced them, and he nearly spilled his entire cup of cocoa down her shirt. She thinks of his warm eyes, apologetic and chagrined, and the way she’d laughed instead of getting angry. 

_Careful, sweetie,_ she’d said, without thought. _You’ll put someone’s eye out._

She thinks of the way he’d blushed. I’d have to get through your hair first, he’d said, and then turned even brighter red. 

“River?” 

She inhales. “Once.” 

He nods. “Me too.” 

Her stomach clenches. “Oh? Who’s the lucky girl?” 

There’s a long pause, so long River thinks he isn’t going to answer. That he doesn’t trust her with his past, doesn’t want to explain. She thinks she should probably go inside; it’s getting cold, and her fingers are going numb, and Amy and Rory will be wondering what happened to them. 

And then John speaks, so quiet, she almost doesn’t hear him, “I’m looking at her.” 

The words sound like nonsense. She stares at him, trying to figure out what he means, some other message she isn’t hearing. Part of her wants to look behind her, to see if someone’s there. But the space is quiet, and John is looking at her apprehensively, wringing his hands together in front of him. 

She tries to respond, but her mouth won’t move and her heart feels too loud in her chest. 

“What?” she finally manages, and John cringes. 

“I mean, I suppose that’s what you meant—that moment isn’t always the same for both people, so it’s rare and precious. I understand that. I just...hoped….” 

He looks at her through his fringe, and she has the near irresistible urge to brush it aside, to let her fingers linger on his skin. 

“But you hate me,” she says, frowning, and John balks, nearly hits her as his limbs flail. 

“What? No I don’t!”

She raises an eyebrow. “You make fun of my career, you argue with me at every turn—”

“That was flirting!”

“You never sit next to me or touch me or—”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Polite?”

He huffs. “Yes, polite. Whenever you’re in the room I just have this irresistible urge to—”

“To what?”

He blinks, stares, and doesn’t kiss her like she thinks he might, hopes. Instead, he reaches out a finger and bops her lightly on the nose. Then grins. 

“You...wanted to touch my nose?”

His grin fades, and he scratches his cheek. “Is that weird? Amy said that would be weird, should have listened—”

“Amy? What’s she got to do with—”

John sighs. “She’s been trying to get me to ask you out for months. I think it’s why she introduced us in the first place. Thought we’d be...compatible.”

River snorts, but she feels a pang at that, still uncertain, confused. “Hardly. You can never seem to get away from me fast enough.”

“That’s not true." 

"And you're in love with Amy." 

She holds her breath after she says it, but John makes the most disgusted face she's ever seen, spluttering, "Amy? No! She's a big scary ginge I'm not—" 

River laughs, and John glares at her. 

"Ugh, like my sister," he says, sticking his tongue out like there's a bad taste in his mouth. 

"You are awfully friendly with her," River says, but she's smiling softly. "Can't blame a girl for misinterpreting." 

" _Yes,_ I can," he grouses. "I haven't been flirting outrageously with Amy for the last six months." 

River bites her lip. "Darling, you haven't been flirting outrageously with _anyone_ the last six months." 

"But I—" 

" 'Archaeology is no better than grave robbing as a profession' is not flirting." 

"Alright, fine, my flirting's rubbish, but you're just as bad!" he accuses. "You said I looked like a clown in a physics department!" 

River smirks. "It's the bow tie," she says, finally giving in to the urge to reach out and smooth down the sides, the way she's always wanted to. 

"Bow ties are cool." 

She drops her hand. "Whatever you say, sweetie." The endearment slips out, but John brightens at it, smiling down at her so fond, and it takes her a moment to realize he's always looked at her like that—soft, warm eyes, a hint of a smile. Before, she just thought it was how he looked at everyone, but now that she thinks about it, he doesn't do the same to Amy or Rory. Just her. 

"You really don't hate me?" she asks, and feels a bit ridiculous for it; but John shakes his head, suddenly serious. 

"I really don't hate you," he promises. “I just… I wasn’t sure if you…”

“If I what?”

He swallows. “Felt the same. But Amy said you did, so I thought…”

River opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She’d thought she’d been subtle, been hiding it well but apparently Amy had noticed, and she’d yell at her for assuming if it weren’t for the hopeful look on John’s face. 

“I…” she starts, licks her lips, sees John’s eyes follow the movement. “May have considered it. In passing.”

His face brightens, sadness behind his eyes all but disappearing. “Yeah?”

“You’re arrogant, and ridiculous, and you have terrible dress sense—”

“Oi!”

“And I…” she stops, has never said it out loud, hardly ever thinks it, even to herself. But John seems to hear her, and steps closer, smiling. 

“You like me.”

“Grudgingly.”

He grins, fixing his bowtie. “You really like me.”

“Oh, shut up,” she laughs, and to her surprise, he steps even closer, catching her wrist lightly, his thumb rubbing a pattern over her skin. 

“Make me,” he says, voice soft, eyes bright. 

“Maybe I will.”

He bends his head, still watching her. “I’m waiting.”

She blinks, sobers, suddenly unsure, and she can’t do this if it’s just a fling, attraction and lust. Normally she wouldn’t mind, but not with John. She can’t have him and then let him go. Not him. 

“River,” he murmurs, her name so soft, so reverent in his mouth, and he lifts a hand to brush her hair back behind her ear. 

“Is this—“ she starts, searches for the words. 

“Not small in the slightest,” he murmurs, and she has to give it to him, it’s a good line, better than she expected, and she gives in, arches up and kisses him, and he responds instantly, his arm flailing for a moment before his hand lands on her shoulder. He’s warm and sweet and tastes like cocoa and she winds a hand in his hair, tugs gently. He lets out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a moan and his hips press into hers and she laughs when he stammers, not so smooth after all. 

“You need to work on your flirting,” she says, a bit breathless. “People are going to get the wrong idea.”

He presses his forehead to hers. “Sorry, dear,” he says, and the endearment sends shivers down her spine. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’d better,” she says, and kisses him again.


End file.
